


Under the Satina Moon

by TheLadyOfWorlds



Series: The Poet and the Muse [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Varric Tethras is a Good Friend, Varris Tethras Has a Heart of Gold
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-05 00:38:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 13,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16800223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLadyOfWorlds/pseuds/TheLadyOfWorlds
Summary: Created for the 2018 Advent Ficlet Challenge by Miss Davis on Tumblr.This series of 24 chapters will follow Varric Tethras and Thalia Hawke - both their friendship and their eventual relationship.Title Inspiration:Satinalia: In many places, this holiday—once dedicated to the Old Goddess of chaos, Zazikel, but now attributed more to the Second Moon, Satina—is still accompanied by wild celebration. Celebrants wear masks and lose their inhibitions, and they place the town fool as ruler for a day. In Antiva (Antiva City in particular), this festival lasts for a week or more, followed by a week of fasting. In more pious areas, this holiday is now marked by large feasts and gift-giving.





	1. The Scent of Pine

**Author's Note:**

> December 1st: Holiday Decor.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Come and say "hi" to me on [Tumblr!](www.somnaborium.tumblr.com)

Since the loss of Bethany at the hands of an ogre - and the loss of Carver to the Deep Roads - Thalia Hawke hadn’t much been in the mood to celebrate the holidays, especially the fast approaching Satinalia.

Kirkwall seemed to have burst with festive spirit and Hawke felt as though she was drowning in it - people were singing traditional songs on every corner, the Chantry sisters were bestowing blessings as if they were going out of style and gigantic trees had been erected in Hightown, festooned with bunting and gaudy baubles.

Hawke wanted nothing more than to hide at home until the whole season was over and done with, but with Leandra to think about (and Maker knew that this time of year was harder on her than anyone, her losses worn like scars for anyone that looked too closely past the facade of the always genial hostess; not that many did but that was something for another time), she knew she needed to at least pretend to be interested in the festivities.

But it was just so damn  _ hard _ . 

Beneath her sass and her snark and the easy smile that played tricks on her lips, under the fire and the magic and carefree attitude lay something much darker, something sad and pained and  _ raw _ . 

Something that nobody saw, or at least cared to look for.

And so, the carefully crafted personality was worn like armor and Hawke made certain to keep it that way; letting it slip only when she was sure that she was alone.

She could hear the shuffling sounds of Leandra moving about the estate, the soft trembling breath of a woman trying her hardest to stifle her tears and grief; the dry cough of someone who had spent the previous night awake and talking to the memories of her lost loved ones.

She slipped out, unnoticed, unheard and made her way to Lowtown.

_________

“Hawke!” Varric greeted her with his usual joviality, smile fading when he noticed that she lacked her usual spirit. “What’s wrong, beautiful?”

“Ah, it’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

“Hm, you realise that being told  _ not  _ to worry is going to have the opposite effect, right?” He propelled Hawke into a chair and sat next to her, pushing a tumbler of whiskey towards her. “Talk to me, maybe I can help.”

Hawke sighed. 

_ Well, why not?  _ She thought,  _ it can’t hurt _ .

“This time of year is, well it just, I hate it. Everyone is so happy and full of cheer and song and I just want to bury myself somewhere until the madness has passed. I know I should make an effort for Mother, but I just  _ can’t _ Varric, I don’t have it in me to be the catalyst of her happiness, you know?”

“Oh, Thalia,” Varric took her hands and squeezed gently. “I had no idea it was so hard for you. What can I do to help?”

“I don’t even know, I just need to buck up and make sure the estate is appropriately festive for Mother. I have a job to do for Aveline, because Maker forbid her own guards do something useful for once; but then I’ll look into finding her a tree or something nice for the dining area at least.”

“Well, you know I’m here if you need help. With the job or anything else, yes?”

Hawke smiled, a ghost of her usual smirk, but a smile nonetheless and Varric took his simple victory where he could.

He waved her on as she left, the gears of his mind already whirring.

______

The job for Aveline had turned into something much larger, taking Hawke away from her home for several days and by the time she trudged her way to the estate, all she could think of was a hot bath, a decent meal and about a weeks worth of sleep; but of course she couldn’t do any of that until she’d found a way to make the house a place of festive wonder for Leandra.

It sounded like such a daft thing, but she knew deep down that it would make her mother happy, or as close an approximation of happy as she could be, anyway.

“Alright,” she muttered as she opened the front door, “I’ll take a quick wash with soap and water, something to eat and  _ then _ I’ll go out for a tree.”

She was not expected to be greeted by Leandra, and especially not the beaming, flushed, excited Leandra that took her hands and kissed her cheek.

“Mother…?” 

“Oh darling,  _ thank you _ . It’s just what I needed, what  _ we  _ needed! It’s perfect!”

“What in the Void are you talk-” Hawke stopped mid-sentence as she walked into the estate.

Standing tall and proud, tucked into the corner by the stairs was an enormous pine tree, the scent of it - fresh and woody - tickling her nose. It was decorated with bunting printed with the Amell crest, trimmed with beautiful wooden figures and red and gold baubles.

Pinned to the mantle above the fireplace were two embroidered gift stockings that looked full to bursting.

“I don’t know how you did it, my darling, but it all arrived yesterday while I was running errands. There’s even a pheasant to roast for Satinalia, with some of those delicious Orlesian truffles for dessert!”

“I…” Hawke took it all in and smiled, suddenly realising who was responsible. “Enjoy it, Mother, you deserve it. I just need to go out for a moment and I’ll be back soon.”

She left the estate, running to the Hanged Man as fast as her feet could take her; bursting into Varric’s suit and throwing her arms around him, nearly knocking him over in the process.

“Thank you, Varric. It’s beautiful.”

“Anything for you, Hawke.” Varric replied, “just save me some food or something.”

Hawke laughed, kissed her best friend on the cheek and left, turning in the doorway. “I absolutely love you, Varric. You know that, right?”

“Ah, get out already.” He grinned, waving her away, waiting for her to be fully out of earshot before responding, “I love you, too, Hawke.”


	2. Star Light, Star Bright

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the 2018 Advent Ficlet Challenge.  
> December 2ndt: Star.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Come and say "hi" to me on [Tumblr!](www.somnaborium.tumblr.com)

“Do you ever wish on stars, Varric?”

“No, but then I’ve never been one for wishing, anyway.”

“Hm, surely it’s not too much of a stretch of imagination for you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just… Impractical.”

“Isn’t that the point of wishes?”

“Well. Yes, but, it’s like prayer. Nice in theory, but doesn’t really  _ do  _ anything.”

“Prayer makes people feel better, though.”

Varric exhaled, blowing out a neat smoke ring as he passed the pipe to Hawke who sucked on it greedily, inhaling the potent mixture of embrium, elfroot and dragonthorn. 

_ Not enough to get horribly intoxicated, _ she thought,  _ but enough to relax and forget things for a while. _

They had taken to doing this - climbing out onto the roof of her Hightown estate and sharing a pipe of an evening - when Hawke revealed how utterly stressed she had become trying to deal with the problems that the residents of Kirkwall had piled upon her shoulders.

It helped, whether it was the mixture of plants in the pipe or simply the company and the comfort that he brought with him, Hawke couldn’t say.

Well, she could, but that would mean admitting something to herself that she would rather tamp down and ignore for the time being.

“Father always taught me to wish,” she continued, her voice softened by the smoke, “he said that sometimes the power we send out while wishing can return to us threefold.”

“So, I could wish for Bartrand’s ultimate demise and if I want it enough, it’ll happen? I’m starting to like this idea.”

Hawke chuckled, re-lighting the pipe and passing it back, “you’re  _ terrible _ . But yes, I suppose that would work.”

“So was it a fancy spell, or more of a general casting out of energy?”

Hawke rolled onto her side and looked down at Varric for a moment, lips quirked in the smirk he had come to know meant something either very good or very bad was about to happen.

“I could teach you.”

“Dwarves can’t do magic, Muse.”

“It isn’t actually magic, you horses ass.”

“Oh! You wound me, Messere!”

“Shut up, Varric.”

He mimed locked his mouth closed and throwing the key away, eyes twinkling with mirth.

Hawke rolled her eyes and flopped back down next to him.

“Alright, so Father taught me this rhyme -”

“It  _ is _ a spell!” 

“Maker help me, Varric…”

“Shutting up now.”

“And you find the brightest star in the sky and say the rhyme, then wish; throwing all your energy into it. Father said if you did that, the heavens would hear it and send it back to you.”

“That’s… Hawke, that’s the biggest amount of bullshit…”

“Fine, I won’t teach you the rhyme then. No wishes for loudmouth dwarves.”

She snatched the pipe, drew in a lungful of smoke and exhaled; eyes closed in satisfaction.

“Hawke, I don’t  _ need  _ wishes.”

“Everyone needs wishes. It’s like hope, you know?”

Varric took the pipe, tapped out the burnt herbs and refilled it, passing it to Hawke to light. She grinned, a small flame igniting from her fingertip. He nodded, puffing at the pipe to start it off.

“So, oh wise one. Why don’t you need wishes?”

“Because,” he said, so quietly she thought she’d misheard him, “I have everything I could possibly wish for right here.”

A silence settled over them, comfortable and familiar, broken only by the inhale and exhale of smoke.

Hawke turned her head to look at Varric.

“Did you mean that?”

“What do you think?”

“I think you’re a big softie.”

“Just don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation here.”

“Your secret’s safe with me.”

“Good, now c’mere and teach me this rhyme of yours. I think I can see the brightest star and maybe I could use a little magic in my life. For fictional research purposes of course.”

Hawke chuckled and curled up close to Varric, his arm slipping easily around her back.

And there, on her roof, they spent the rest of the night surrounded by stars and smoke, wishing and hoping and dreaming together.


	3. King of Fools

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the 2018 Advent Ficlet Challenge.  
> December 3rd: You Better Watch Out.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Come and say "hi" to me on [Tumblr!](www.somnaborium.tumblr.com)

“You better watch out, you know Varric,” Thalia Hawke grinned at her companion across the breakfast table, laden with eggs, cold meats, bread, cheese and fruits.

“And why, pray tell, is that?” 

“It’s nearly Satinalia.”

Varric paused, forkful of eggs halfway to his mouth, tried to make sense of the information given to him and failed, arching an eyebrow at Hawke.

“Alright, I’ll bite. Explain why it being nearly Satinalia means I have to watch out.”

“Because tradition dictates that the towns fool is made ruler during the festivities.”

“And I need to watch out because… Oh  _ wait _ . Well that’s just rude, Hawke.  _ Rude _ .”

Hawke cackled happily into her tea, watching Varric narrow his eyes and cross his arms over his chest in mock anger.

“I think you’d be in the running here, too, considering the foolishness that you involve yourself in on a regular basis.”

“Ah, but who is the bigger fool? The one running headlong into trouble, or the person that follows willingly?” Hawke speared a piece of apple on her fork and popped it into her mouth with a bit of sharp, tangy cheese; grinning when Varric made a face at her.

“How you eat like that is beyond me. Do all humans do that?”

“Apple and cheese is delicious, you uncultured swine.”

“I’m sure I didn’t order a side of insults with my breakfast,” Varric grumbled into his coffee.

“You didn’t order breakfast, you just let yourself into my house and made yourself at home,” Hawke laughed, “not that I mind, but you really did put yourself in this position. Food comes with a side of snark in this house.”

Varric sighed in his usual pretence of being put-upon by this behaviour and then lifted his coffee in salute with his trademark smirk.

“Which is, of course, why I come here.”   
“Obviously.”

Varric laughed then, a deep, rich sound that filled the room. “So if I become the king of fools for this city, I’ll need someone by my side,” he winked at Hawke, a suggestive smile quirking his mouth.

“Are you asking me to be your queen, Varric?”

“Well, who else? Nobody could fill that role as well as you!”

“I think I’m insulted.”

“Oh come now, Hawke. You’d make a beautiful monarch. Even if it is to preside over idiots.”

Hawke beamed, and hopped up from the table, leaving the room to return with two pieces of parchment.

Tongue poking out, she carefully folded, bent and creased the parchment until both pieces looked something like hats.

_ Ah _ , Varric realised,  _ not a hat. A crown. _

She placed one on his head, setting it at a rather jaunty angle (because of course, she could never do anything with making him smile) and then knelt before him, head bowed in a gesture approaching obeisance.

“My king,” she murmured, “I would take your crown.”

“Ah,” Varric swallowed, throat suddenly dry at the image before him and licked his lips, “ah…”

“It’s not like you to be lost for words,” Hawke peered up at him through thick lashes.

Varric cleared his throat and reached for the “crown”, turning it over in his hands, before tilting Hawke’s head up with his fingers under her chin and placing it on her head.

“Arise, my queen. Arise and together we shall rule the many, many fools of Kirkwall!”

She stood, pulling him up with her and linking his arm through hers.

Together, they left her estate and walked through Hightown, this pretend king and his queen; their laughter echoing off the cobblestones.


	4. When Snow Falls, Nature Listens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the 2018 Advent Ficlet Challenge.  
> December 4th: Snowman.
> 
> * * *
> 
> “When snow falls, nature listens” - Antoinette van Kleef
> 
> * * *
> 
> Come and say "hi" to me on [Tumblr](www.somnaborium.tumblr.com)

Hawke barrelled into the Hanged Man like an overly excited puppy, all long limbs and boundless energy; crashing into the patrons with breathless laughs and apologies fired over her shoulder as she took the stairs to Varric’s suite in one jump and came skidding to a halt by his table.

Varric peered over his half-moon glasses at her, quill in hand and several stacks of parchment in front of him and blinking owlishly at the energetic woman in front of him.

“Alright,” he set his quill down and removed his glasses, “what’s wrong with you? Did you get into the sugar again?”

“I have important news, Varric.  _ Very  _ important news that you need to hear  **right now** !”

“I’m listening, Hawke.”

Hawke drew in a deep breath and beamed a smile at him. “It’s snowing!”

“Great. Cold wet crap is falling from the sky and freezing the ground.”

Hawke’s enthusiasm came to a sudden, screeching stop. 

“You don’t like snow?”

“What’s to like? It’s colder than Maferath’s balls, everything becomes slippery and more often than not you end up on your ass because you’re walking like a newborn calf.”

“Oh,” Hawke’s face fell and she turned to leave, “but snow is fun. You can go sledding, have snowball fights and make snowmen. Or snowdwarves in your case.”

“Yeah. No. I’ll stay inside where it’s warm and there’s no risk of sliding around on my ass.”

“Alright,” Hawke shrugged, attempting a blithe attitude, but her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, Varric noticed.

_ Aw, nugshit _ , he thought and stood, pulling on his thick leather gloves and his heavy duster.

“Alright, beautiful, let’s go build your snowman.”

“Yes!” Hawke crowed and all but dragged Varric out of his suite and into Lowtown, promising him hot mulled cider and something delicious to eat afterwards.

* * *

True to her word, Hawke supplied food and drinks and they ate in a companionable silence, until they’d finished the simple spread of stew and thick hunks of bread.

“So, you’re really into this time of year, huh?” 

“Hm,” Hawke sipped her cider, “I like the winter, I love snow. Merrill said that the elder of her clan taught her that  _ when snow falls, nature listens _ and I quite like that idea - the thought that everything becomes still and quiet when it snows.”

“Quiet? You heard all the children screaming and causing a riot out there, didn’t you?”

“Oh, hush, you,” Hawke chided. “You had fun, don’t deny it.”

Varric grumbled something into his mug of cider, but his eyes sparkled as they met Hawkes. “The things I do for you, Hawke.”

“It’s almost as if you like me or something,” Hawke countered with a smile.

“Ah,” Varric waved a hand, feigning indifference, “something like that.”

Hawke hummed happily, smiling into her drink; reaching over and twining her fingers with Varric’s as they watched fat flakes of snow drift lazily to the ground, surrounding the fat, squat snowman they’d built together.


	5. Questioning Beliefs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the 2018 Advent Ficlet Challenge.  
> December 5th: Believe
> 
> * * *
> 
> Come and say "hi" to me on [Tumblr!](www.somnaborium.tumblr.com)

“What do you believe in, Varric?”

“Hmm...?”

The dwarfs lazy reply came from somewhere behind Hawke, where he was sitting in the high-backed armchair in her library.

She was on the floor by the fire, on her stomach, legs kicked up at the knee, idly flipping through a book when it occurred to her that she didn’t know much about dwarven beliefs.

“You know, the Dalish have their gods, Merrill said they’re called the Evanuris. Most humans follow the Chantry’s teachings about Andraste to some degree and the Qunari have the Qun. What do dwarves believe?”

“Ah,” Varric set his book down and studied Hawke for a moment, “well, most dwarves worship the Stone, honor the Ancestors, that kind of thing.”

“And you?” She moved, sitting cross-legged in front of him.

“I’ve never been one for tradition, Hawke, you know that.”

“That’s not quite an answer, Varric.”

“I know,” he said, plainly. “Truth is, I don’t  _ have  _ an answer. But what about you? Where do you stand on the whole belief thing?”

Hawke shrugged, one shoulder lifting and falling slowly. “Sometimes I’m not sure. I pray, I attend the Chantry services when I can, but I’m not devout. I always wonder if I should be more involved though.”

“Why? What’s made you think of this?”

“Ah, I don’t know. This time of year, Mother was always busy with services and vigils, helping out with various things for the Satinalia festivals and I just feel like the nobles want me to step into her shoes.”

“I’m guessing the shoes are feeling a little too big for you?”

Hawke laughed, more a breathy exhale of a chuckle than an actual laugh, but still a welcome sound amidst the serious conversation. “You could say that. I’m not Mother, I never will be. Too much magic, too much of an adventurer to sit in stuffy drawing rooms with other nobles. But she loved all that - she was an Amell at heart, even though she loved Father and his name.”

“I think that too many people define themselves by what they believe in and not what they do or what they say. You’re not your faith, or lack of faith. You’re what you  _ do. _ ”

“Even if what I do is sometimes messy?”

“ _ Especially _ then,” Varric smiled. “You’ve become the unofficial bastion of hope for Kirkwall. Not to put too much pressure on you.”

“Thanks that, Varric. I feel so much better now.”

“You’re welcome, beautiful.”

Hawke shook her head, a smile playing on her lips and turned back to her book, rolling back onto her stomach. 

Varric watched her, the way the firelight played over her skin, the kick of her legs as she read and wondered what would have happened had he answered her differently, truthfully.

_ “What do you believe in, Varric?” _

_ “You, Hawke. I believe in you.” _


	6. Nights by Firelight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the 2018 Advent Ficlet Challenge  
> December 6th: Fireplace
> 
> * * *
> 
> Come and say "hi" to me here:  
> [Tumblr](www.somnaborium.tumblr.com) [Dreamwidth](https://coffeefuelledangst.dreamwidth.org/)   
> [Instagram](www.instagram.com/somnaborium) and [Twitter](www.twitter.com/somnaborium)

Satinalia in Skyhold was a busy affair, Varric noticed as he wandered the gardens one afternoon.

Trees had been decorated to within an inch of their lives, banners and bunting stamped with the Inquisition heraldry was strung up from every conceivable rafter and parapet and somewhere Varric could hear the sounds of a choir singing traditional Satinalia songs; the sound of which reached him no matter where in the Keep he was.

Not that it bothered him. He actually quite enjoyed the festival - days of feasting, drinking, merriment and giving gifts to loved ones? What’s not to enjoy? 

But, if he was being really honest with himself, it did make him miss a certain loved one a little too much.

Although he had what he considered friends within the Keep, there was a large Thalia Hawke shaped hole in his life and it couldn’t be filled with anything other than her.

She had left Skyhold months ago, having survived the Fade and vowing to find out exactly what was happening, heading towards Weisshaupt. Her last letter had arrived weeks ago, short and sweet and giving hardly anything of her whereabouts away but full of promises that she would return to him as soon as she could.

He had replied with an even shorter, sweeter letter saying simply  _ “I’m holding you to that, Muse” _ but had heard nothing since.

And again, if he was being really honest, it was somewhat worrying. No matter where she was, she always (and Maker knew how) managed to find a way to send him  _ something _ . Mostly tales from the road, charming anecdotes about the patrons of an inn she was staying at overnight or sometimes, just telling him she missed him and wished she could be there.

Their correspondence had been frequent up until now and Varric was hoping it meant nothing more than her being too busy with the Wardens to write.

_ No point dwelling on it _ , he thought as he walked back to his room.  _ She’ll be alright, you know that. _

He reached the door to his room, passing Sera who was grinning madly in his direction; something that wasn’t all that unusual where Sera was concerned, but the way her eyes were dancing said less  _ I’ve just pulled the biggest prank of my life _ and more  _ someone’s about to get a shock _ . 

Knowing that he’d find out whatever it was that had the mischievous elf so giddy later, he pushed open his door and was greeted by the warmth of his fire; food on the table with two glasses of deep, red wine set out alongside the plates.

Frowning, Varric wished he had quick access to his usually ever-present crossbow; although an intruder waiting to pounce and kill him most likely would not have set up food and a roaring fire beforehand.

Obviously, some noble had arrived and thought the room belonged to them; it had happened before and was always remedied quickly by their Ambassador.

He cleared his throat tentatively, “uhh, hello? Anyone in here? I think you have the wrong room, my friend.”

“Maker I hope not,” a familiar voice sang out from behind a dressing screen, “otherwise I’ve got some explaining to do!”

Hawke stepped out, dressed in simple robe rather than her travelling leathers which told him she had been here a while - long enough to bathe from her still damp hair and flushed skin, and long enough to set the fire and have food brought up.

“Andraste’s ass, Muse, it’s good to see you!” Varric all but ran across the room, grabbing her by the waist and pulling her down for a long kiss.

When they parted, both smiling, Hawke led him to the fire and they settled in front of it.

“When did you even get here? And how in the Void did you manage to keep it from me?”

“You say that as if I can’t keep a secret, Varric.”

“You’re the  _ worst _ at keeping secrets, Hawke.”

“I’m offended, Serah.  _ Offended _ .”

“Shut up and come here,” Varric grinned and pulled her to him for another kiss - a very effective way of quieting her, he had found.

“I couldn’t let you spend Satinalia without me,” Hawke stretched cat-like in front of the fire; a visual Varric had sorely missed, along with the sparkle of her eyes and the half-smile that she kept for him and him only.

He stroked her cheek, stealing more kisses, “and I appreciate that. More than you know.”

They spent the evening (and all the nights after that, until Hawke had to pack up and leave again) in front of the fire, making up for lost time; talking and drinking and Varric remembered why it was that people called Satinalia the most wonderful time of the year.


	7. Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come and say "hi" to me here:  
> *[Tumblr](www.somnaborium.tumblr.com)  
> *[Dreamwidth](https://coffeefuelledangst.dreamwidth.org/)  
> *[Instagram](www.instagram.com/somnaborium)  
> *[Twitter](www.twitter.com/somnaborium)

Written for the 2018 Advent Ficlet Challenge

December 7th: Memories

* * *

“What are you thinking about, Hawke?”

Varric joined her as she stood staring out of the upper floor window of her estate; gently touching her lower back to gain her attention.

She smiled absently, lopsided, one cheek rising and falling.

“Just thinking…”

“You want to share?”

“Mmm,” she hummed thoughtfully and then nodded, once. “Yes. It’s just old memories of when I was a child. The silly things Father did for us all.”

Varric rubbed small, slow circles on her lower back, a constant touch, grounding and solid.

“I was about ten, I think, when this happened. 

“We had settled in Lothering, Father was teaching me how to control my magic - I had come into it slightly earlier than most but was having a hard time focusing myself and any spells I cast either fizzled into nothing or, as we all found out the hard way, set small buildings alight. That happened a _lot_. 

“So Father decided to move our training to a nearby field that was close enough to home that he could keep an eye on Mother and the twins but far enough away that I wouldn’t set the entire place on fire.

“One evening we were training and it was close to Satinalia. Freezing cold, even by Lothering’s standards but we were wrapped up and he was teaching me to make wisps; little sprites that danced and bobbed around you until you clicked your fingers and they vanished into the air. It was quite hard going; I could create the wisp but for some reason I couldn’t control it or make it disappear again.

“Father said sometimes they could tether themselves to emotion, so if the mage creating them was feeling anything negative then they would feed off of that and become, well, a little mischievous and even harder to control.

“I, for a ten year old, had a fair amount on my mind: being a mage, the templars hunting Father, the fact that we didn’t know if either of the twins would be a mage; leaving Mother alone for long periods of time while he worked was wearing Father down and I could see that. I had, through no actual decision of my own, become the other adult of the house and it was hard to not let the stress of it show.

“Father knew something was troubling me and knelt in front of me, took my hands - his always seemed so large, they could fit both of mine in one easily so, but then he always seemed much larger than life to me anyway; one of those people that could fill a room with his presence, you know?”

She paused here, Varric nodding silently; amber eyes fixed on her as she told her story.

“Anyway. He had this look that he gave people and they’d just start talking to him. Worked like a charm - pardon the pun - on everyone. Me included, it seemed.

“I told him everything. All my fears and worries and under the stars he made me a promise that no matter what he would always be with me. With us. All of us.

“He said he had a surprise for me, that he was waiting for Satinalia proper to give it to me, but he had a feeling I should have it now; so long as I didn’t tell the twins.

“And then he gave me this…”

Hawke took out the pendant she always wore; a simple silver chain with a locket hanging from it and opened it. Inside was a crystal that glowed with an almost unnatural light, shimmering blue-green-violet-pink. She closed the locket with a fond smile.

“What _is_ that, Hawke?”

“It’s a piece of my Father,” she replied. “Not an actual piece, you understand. More a piece of his magic. He said it was to help me focus on the good in the world, because that’s what he did. When he felt things going awry, he thought of us - Mother, me and the twins - and all the good that was in our little house in Lothering. He said that was all he needed to be alright, the thought of us, his family. His heart, he called us.

“It’s never stopped glowing like this, even after…”

She stopped, tears gathering in her eyes and spilling over her cheeks.

“Ah, Hawke,” Varric reached up and brushed the tears away, “that’s because he kept his promise. After all this time, he’s still with you.”

“I’d like to think that, too,” Hawke smiled, brilliant and sad all at once and bent to kiss him on the cheek. 

Varric wrapped his arm around her waist and they stood there in her estate; empty but for the two of them, sharing memories of family and friends into the early hours of the morning.


	8. Carousing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the 2018 Advent Ficlet Challenge  
> December 8th: Music
> 
> * * *
> 
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“Oh come  _ on _ !” Hawke cried, hands on hips, lips forming the perfect little pout.

She had been trying, and failing, to drag Varric out of the Hanged Man to go out and sing Satinalia songs in public.

_ In public _ for the Maker’s sake!

“Hawke. I love you to pieces, but this is the worst idea. Battling a high dragon at the Bone Pit was a better idea than this.”

“ _ Pleeeeeease _ ?” Her tone became wheedling.

“But why? I mean you have many talents, beautiful, but singing? Not one of them.”

“Thank you for that, you ass.”

“Oh yes, that’s how you get me to do something. Insults.”

Hawke knelt in front of Varric, batting her eyelashes, exaggerating the pout and making soft whining noises.

“That’s not going to work, Hawke,” Varric looked away, the ghost of a smile flicking over his lips. 

“I’ll owe you something  _ huge _ if you come with me.  _ Please _ ?”

Varric sighed, taking a sip of his whiskey, “I am going to regret this. And we are getting the largest mugs of ale Corff can provide.”

Hawke cheered, lunged forward and hugged Varric. She dragged him up and out of his suite, singing truly terribly about decking halls and holly - some human song that Varric heard every Satinalia and rolled his eyes at every single time.

On his way out of the Hanged Man, Varric grabbed two large tankards of ale, shrugging helplessly at Corff who just snickered, eyebrows raised.

The evening passed by in a blur of ale, loud singing and a fair amount of laughter - something that was never in short supply where Hawke and Varric were concerned.

They knocked on various doors - strangers who smiled indulgently and gave them a copper for their performances and friends; some of whom joined them (Hawke thought that she must remember to buy something  _ wonderful  _ for Merrill who put up no fight at all when they dragged her out to sing and for teaching them some tradition Dalish songs for the time of year) and some of whom told them in no uncertain terms to leave because they were all terrible and had disturbed a perfectly good bottle of wine.

They ended up back at Hawke’s estate, Merrill asleep in an armchair with the family mabari by her feet and Anders (who had been practically forced out of his clinic to join them) snoring softly on the sofa, clutching the bottle of wine they’d all been sharing.

Hawke chuckled, curled up under a blanket by the fire, “I think we broke them.”

“I think you’re right,” Varric joined her, arm around her as her head dropped to his shoulder, “you doing aright?”

“Mhm,” her voice was softened by wine, her eyes bright and face flushed. “It was a good evening. Thank you.”

“Ah, any time,” he replied, kissing the top of her head gently. “I should make my way home.”

“Stay,” she murmured, “it’s late and you’re very comfortable.”

“As you wish,” Varric yawned and settled under the blanket, the pair of them stretched out together by the fire.

It didn’t take long for sleep to claim either of them, warm and happily drunk, the last thought Varric had before succumbing to the depths of sleep was that it was strange how he’d not known true, real happiness until this hurricane of a human blew into his life and turned it upside down.

And that, perhaps, was where the miracle of Satinalia really was. 


	9. The Greatest Gift is a Portion of Thyself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the 2018 Advent Ficlet Challenge  
> December 9th: Gift
> 
> * * *
> 
> “The Greatest Gift is a Portion of Thyself” - Ralph Waldo Emerson
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Written for the 2018 Advent Ficlet Challenge

December 9th: Gift

* * *

“The Greatest Gift is a Portion of Thyself” - Ralph Waldo Emerson

* * *

“This time of year always has people in a hurry,” Varric observed, watching nobles and commoners alike scurrying about, diving in and out of shops and hovering around the many stalls of the Hightown market.

“Everybody needs to find the perfect gift,” Hawke replied, nibbling on a pastry and sipping hot mulled cider.

They were sitting on a wall, the one that ran high above the market square, wrapped up in winter clothes and simply taking a moment together to just _be_.

It was nice, Varric was thinking, just to be normal for a while and not to be running errands for people or walking into traps for people or doing anything for anyone other than themselves.

Hawke deserved that, at the very least.

“I expect you’ve already found the perfect gifts?” He asked, after a moment.

“Of course,” she laughed, “I had everything bought and wrapped well before the season began.”

“Pah,” he nudged her, shoulder to shoulder, “overachiever.”

“Just because _you_ leave it until the very last moment…”

“I’ll have you know, Serah, I have everything in hand.”

“ _Sure_.” 

“I’m shocked that you don’t believe me, Hawke. _Shocked._ ”

“Last year you forgot and we all ended up with badly darned socks, Varric.”

“Hey!” He protested with a chuckle, “at least they were darned!”

“The look on Fenris’ face _was_ amazing though.” Hawke giggled, “I’ve never seen him look so disgusted!”

“Especially after he gave me that brandy all the way from Orzammar!”

They laughed, finishing the pastries and flicking the crumbs below for the birds to fight over.

“I am missing a gift for one person, though,” Varric said.

“Oh? Anything I can help with?”

“Well, no. It’s you, you awkward pain in the - “

“Yes, alright, I get the picture,” Hawke grinned. “I’m not _that_ difficult!”

Varric made a _“pbbbhttt”_ noise and dodged as Hawke swatted at him.

“No, you aren’t, but you deserve something special. You’ve been through a lot.” _And this city just keeps taking more and more_ , he added, silently.

He had been struggling to find her a gift that perfectly conveyed how he felt - she was his best friend, and lately there had been something more brewing between them and he needed to give her something that expressed how much she meant to him. It was not easy.

Jewellery was out, the only thing Hawke wore was the locket from her Father. 

She was well-read, but tended to buy books from the small second-hand bookshop in Lowtown because she wanted them to stay in business and Varric knew she’d exhausted their stock already.

She enjoyed certain scented bath oils and perfumes, but word had it that Merrill and Isabela had bought her a hamper full of her favourites; Fenris had gotten her a collection of fine red wines, Anders had thought along the same lines with a selection of her favourite herbal teas and Aveline had, naturally, gone the practical route with a new pair of sturdy leather boots.

Sebastian had remained tight-lipped about his gift, which made Varric think it was a copy of the Chant of Light.

_Just what everyone wants for Satinalia,_ Varric groaned inwardly, _religious texts!_

He knew Hawke would appreciate it, given that she attended the Chantry services every week and had her own prayer space at home, tucked into an alcove somewhere, but _still_ …

“Varric?” Hawke touched his shoulder, jolting him out of his thoughts, “are you alright? I lost you for a moment there.”

“All good, beautiful.”

“We’re here,” she gestured to his suite door, “I could kick the door down if you don’t want to unlock it?”

“Hush,” he grumbled, unlocked the door and ushering her in before him.

Hawke flung herself gracefully into one of the large wooden chairs and picked up a leather-bound book, flicking through it as Varric poured two glasses of whiskey.

“Varric?” Her voice floated over to him as he arranged some food on plates, thinking that he’d need to buy something for Nora this year as she was always so good at anticipating when he’d need food sent to his rooms nowadays.

“Hmm?” He responded idly, piling on cold meats and cheese, turning back to Hawke and nearly dropping the plates and glasses as he saw what she was reading.

_No no no no no, not that one! Maker, any book but my sketch book!_

“Ahh,” he fumbled the plates and glasses onto the table and tried snatching the book away from Hawke who held it above her head with a grin. “Really, Hawke? That’s just unfair.”

“It’s just a sketch book, you’re really very good,” she put the book down and it slid off the table, opening to a section of sketches that she recognised at once. “Is… is that _me_?”

“Uhh,” Varric sat down and groaned slightly, “yeah, it’s you.”

She flipped through, page after page of her in various poses; some of her in action during battle, some of her laughing during card games and one of her that took her breath away. 

It was simple, she was clearly lost in thought, a faraway look in her eyes, teeth catching her lower lip; hair loose and tumbled around her shoulders, candlelight shining along her skin and giving her an almost otherworldly glow.

“I…” she turned luminous eyes towards Varric, lost for words.

“It’s nothing, honestly. Just something silly I do when I have time.”

“Silly? It’s _beautiful_ , I love it. May I keep it? Consider it my Satinalia gift.”

“It’s yours, although it’s not going to be your gift. You deserve something much more special.”

“This is special, Varric. Besides, the greatest gift anyone could give me is something that has a piece of them in it.”

She hugged him then, kissing his cheek and smiling, sun bright and almost too beautiful to look at.

Varric sighed happily, kicking back in his chair and watching as Hawke resumed flicking through his sketches.

Maybe she was right, he mused, perhaps the best gifts really did come from the heart.


	10. A Satinalia Miracle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the 2018 Advent Ficlet Challenge  
> December 10th: Do You See What I See?
> 
> * * *
> 
> Come and say "hi" to me here:  
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“Do you see what I see, Varric?” Hawke nudged him, tipping her chin in the direction of the bar a the Hanged Man.

“Is… is that  _ Fenris _ ?” Varric sat, open-mouthed, eyes wide at the sight before him, “with  _ Isabela _ ?”

Fenris, so often dour and brooding, was standing with the Rivaini pirate, close enough that not even the smallest person could squeeze between them; their hands touching, pinky fingers linked.

The biggest surprise wasn’t that the elf was allowing the touch; Varric noted, but that he was  _ smiling. _

“Well, would you look at that,” Varric said with a low whistle, “it’s like a Satinalia miracle.”

“Good for him,” Hawke smiled, “good for them both, they deserve some happiness. Especially with how crazy everything is in this city right now.”

“Hear hear,” Varric tapped his tankard against her glass. “You do, too, you know.”

“Hmm?”

“Deserve some happiness.”

“Oh, I’m fine Varric.”

“Yes, but  _ fine  _ isn’t happy.  _ Fine  _ is just happy’s distant, long lost cousin.”

Hawke laughed, the sound like tinkling bells heard across a snowy landscape, Varric thought and he wished more than anything that he could bottle that sound and keep it close.

“I am happy, though,” Hawke continued, “I mean, it’s been a tough few years, but I have some wonderful friends. And I have you.”

“I don’t count among your friends, Hawke? I’m crushed.”

“You know what I mean, you  _ ass _ .”

“Hmm, no,” Varric shrugged, earning him an eye-roll, “I don’t believe I do.”

“Oh you’re  _ insufferable _ !”

Varric chuckled, glancing around and then taking her chin in his hand, bringing her head down to his for a long, sweet kiss.

“Is that what you meant, Muse?”

“I’m not  _ quite  _ sure I understood completely. Perhaps we should try again?” She smiled, innocently.

“Now who’s being insufferable?”

“You love it, dwarf.”

“That, I cannot deny.”

They stood, hand in hand and climbed the stairs to his suite, locking the door behind them and spent the rest of their evening in pursuit of understanding just exactly how insufferable the other could be.


	11. Lost and Found

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the 2018 Advent Ficlet Challenge  
> December 11th: Comfort and Joy
> 
> * * *
> 
> Come and say "hi" to me here:  
> [Tumblr](www.somnaborium.tumblr.com) // [Instagram](www.instagram.com/somnaborium) // [Twitter](www.twitter.com/somnaborium)

Varric knew something was wrong the moment he stepped into the Hawke estate. Something in the air felt strange,  _ off  _ somehow, as though the usual calming energies that suffused the home had been disrupted.

Bodhan stood in the entryway wringing his hands and muttering; which wasn’t so unusual for him, but this just seemed frantic, an air of fretful worry surrounding him.

Varric took him by the shoulders and steadied him. “What’s wrong, Bodhan? You seem more worried than you usually do.”

“It’s Messere Hawke, Ser. She’s gone into a frightful fit of sadness.”

_ That explains how strange the place feels, then,  _ Varric thought.

“Did anything happen to cause it?”

“I… I just don’t know, Ser! Oh, poor Lady Hawke, she’s had to suffer through so much!”

Varric sighed and left the other dwarf to pace and fret, nodding at Orana who was cleaning the hearth, smiling his thanks when she pointed up the stairs towards Hawke’s room.

He stopped in front of the closed door, hearing muffled sobs from within, wondering if perhaps she needed this time to be alone. Sometimes, people just needed to let everything out without fear of judgement or unwanted words of comfort.

Just as he made the decision to leave and return a little later, perhaps with her favourite wine they could share together by the fire, he heard the sounds of shattering glass and the crack of wood being struck to breaking point; accompanied by a noise that sounded frighteningly like a wounded animal rather than the usual sounds of human sadness.

At this, he pushed open the door and was greeted by a crystal vase flying over his head.

“Hawke?”

The room was dark, curtains drawn tight against the waning daylight. No candles were lit, no fire glowed warmly in the hearth. Broken glass, splintered wood from looked to be a smashed end table and a bent picture frame from the portrait that usually hung above her dressing table were all scattered on the floor, along with what looked like shredded clothes - all fancy dresses from first glance.

“ _ Hawke _ ?”

A strangled sob answered him from the corner of the room. He crossed the cluttered area quickly, finding her huddled and practically tearing apart a jewellery box with her bare hands.

“Hawke? Come on, beautiful, talk to me. What in blazes is going on?”

She raised a tear stained, red-eyed face to him, lower lip trembling, hands shaking. “I’ve lost it, I… I can’t find it. It’s gone,  _ it’s gone _ !” The last two words tore from her throat and Varric felt his heart constrict painfully in his chest. 

“Whatever it is, I’ll help you find it. It’s alright. Just tell me what we’re looking for.”

“My locket.” She sobbed, throwing the jewellery box aside, emptied and lid half broken.

_ Oh, _ Varric thought,  _ oh shit, no wonder she’s so upset. _

Hawke began tearing through books and papers, ripping and tearing frantically. Varric took her hands in one of his, holding them steady; while the other stroked the tears away from her cheeks.

“It’s going to be alright, sweetheart, we’ll find it.”

“We  _ have  _ to! I can’t be without it, it’s all I have left.”

“Let’s think about this methodically. Where did you have it last?”

“I know I had it when we were at the Wounded Coast yesterday and oh  _ Maker _ what if I lost it there? What if the chain snapped and someone found it and there’s some horrible scavenger just walking around the Free Marches carrying my locket!” Her sobbing began anew, a heart wrenching sound that was part grief, part anger and all loss.

“Hawke!” Varric took her chin in his hand and forced her to look at him, “please, stop. I promise you we will find it. But please, try to calm down. For me?”

She sniffled, a few quiet sobs escaping her until she calmed and quieted.

“Alright. When we came back from the Coast we all went back to the Hanged Man for drinks and a card game. Now I know you had it then -”

“How do you know that?”

_ Because I remember you toying with it and how the candlelight glinted off of the silver and made you glow like a goddess _ , Varric thought.

“Because I remember seeing it. You stay here, I’ll have Orana draw you a nice hot bath and I’ll be back before you know it.”

“Where are you going?”

“To look for your locket.”

_________

True to his word, Varric returned not two hours later, clutching his prize like something precious.

Hawke was curled in an armchair by the fire in the library, a blanket drawn tight around her shoulders; smelling wonderfully of sweetly scented bath oils and the perfume she dabbed at her pulse points.

“Look what I found,” Varric sang, holding the locket out to her.

Hawke bolted out of the chair and threw herself at him, hugging him fiercely and kissing his cheek. 

“You wonderful…! Where was it?”

“My rooms, the chain had snapped; so I fixed it for you.” He untangled himself from her grasp and clasped the chain around her neck, her scent enveloping him until he felt dizzy with it.

“Thank you, Varric. You’ve saved the day.”

“Ah, it was nothing. Anything for you, Hawke.”

“It was  _ everything _ . You’re the Champions champion, you know that?”

She smiled, brilliant and bright; no trace ofthe sadness or tears from earlier and Varric sighed happily at her words.

She had no idea what it had meant to hear her say that, not yet and possibly never would; but to see her so happy at something he had done was a feeling he would keep close to his heart for many days to come.


	12. A Gingerbread House for a Merchant Prince

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the 2018 Advent Ficlet Challenge  
> December 12th: Gingerbread
> 
> * * *
> 
> Come and say "hi" to me here:  
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Varric had walked straight into a madhouse.

Hawke was in the kitchen, which wasn’t unusual but the scene he had found upon entering the estate was most definitely  _ not _ something he had been expecting.

“Uhh, Hawke?” He leaned against the door, eyeing the messy kitchen, “what exactly are you doing?”

She turned, pink-cheeked and bright-eyed; smiling and practically glowing with happiness.

“It’s a surprise,” she sang out cheerfully, “have a seat.”

“Is there anywhere not covered in flour or sugar?”

Hawke laughed, handing him a clean dishrag and gesturing for him to make himself comfortable - not that he needed much instruction in that; the estate was a second home to him now.

He looked around as Hawke busied herself. Flour dusted the large table, sticky patches of  _ something  _ dotted here and there and the whole place smelled wonderfully of warming cinnamon and ginger.

“So, do I get a hint as to what this is all about?”

“Nope!” her voice floated over from a tucked away corner of the room; whatever she was doing, she clearly wanted to keep it hidden for the time being. “Just stay there and keep yourself busy for a moment.”

Varric shrugged, used to the slight eccentricities of his Muse by now. He wiped flour off of a seat and settled in, breathing in the strangely familiar aromas.

He pulled out a manuscript that his editor had sent back, thick red ink scoring through huge chunks of, what he thought had been, brilliant pacing and twisting plot points.

_ Everyone’s a critic _ , he thought,  _ especially when they’re being paid obscene amounts of money for it. _

This particular manuscript had been a change of pace for him, a different genre and apparently it wasn’t one that his editor thought much of. It was the third time it had been returned, each time more and more was slashed out, the accompanying letter stating in no uncertain terms what the editor  _ really  _ thought of his attempts.

It was nothing short of disheartening and Varric had been in something of a bad mood due to it - what good was he as a writer if he couldn’t conquer different genres and write new, exciting plots and characters for people to fall in love with?

_ An unpaid one by the looks of these latest edits _ , he thought glumly.  _ Ah well, I always have Hard in Hightown to fall back on if things get really bad. I’m sure I could squeeze another couple of books into the series. _

But would it sell? His editors voice popped into his head unbidden and unwanted and he grumbled, crumpling the manuscript and shoving into his pocket.

“Alright,” Hawke popped her head around the corner, grinning as thought she was hatching some devious plan, “close your eyes.”

Varric sighed, “I’m not really in the mood, Hawke.”

“I know,” she said quietly, “just trust me.”

“Always,” he replied, eyes slanting over to her and then closing.

Soft footsteps, the scent of perfume that he loved and then that familiar smell again - spices and something sweet, like a confection or a cake. Something that reminded him of… the memory slipped away and Hawke told him he could open his eyes.

In front of him sat the most perfect gingerbread house he had ever seen. Tiny candies decorate the windows and doors; the roof looked as though it was under fresh snowfall and through the windows he could even see little pieces of furniture and a fireplace with a small figure sitting by it.

“Hawke, this is beautiful but I don’t understand.”

“A few weeks ago you were sad and a bit drunk and told me about this memory you had of your mother before she passed away -”

“Of her making gingerbread every year at Satinalia,” Varric finished. “She would make ginger cakes and little houses out of gingerbread just like this and gave me the one with the most candies on it because it was a house fit for a Merchant Prince.”

Hawke nodded, smiling gently, “I hope that this does the memory justice. I know you’ve been through a lot what with your brother and your editor constantly sending your new work back to you and I wanted to do something for you that would maybe make things a little better.”

“Oh, Hawke,” Varric leaned up and kissed her cheek, squeezing her hands as he did so, “you never fail to make me smile. No matter how bad things get. This is  _ perfect _ .”

“You’re in there too,” she grinned, lifting the roof off gently, “see? This little figure by the fireplace? That’s you.”

Varric chuckled, inspecting the tiny figure, which Hawke assured him like the furniture, was also edible, should he wish to eat himself. He looked up at her, smiling brilliantly back at him and remembered that even though he was struggling with things right now; there was always someone in his life that made things a little brighter, a little better and filled his days with more love and laughter than he could have ever wished for.

  
  



	13. Musings on a Frosty Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the 2018 Advent Ficlet Challenge  
> December 13th: Frost
> 
> * * *
> 
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She drags him out of bed in the early hours of the morning to witness the first snowfall; the air frigid and painful to take in.

Despite his aversion to the cold, he joins her every time because not so long ago, it was nearly the  _ last  _ time and not just because it wasn’t going to snow again but because he nearly lost her; his brave, beautiful Muse charging headlong at a demon in the Fade, stopped only by the hand of a Warden pulling her back and telling her that this was his job, his reason for being.

Now things are different, settled (or as settled as they can be) and they have a home together, dogs and all; the kitchen always smelling  _ wonderful _ and the fire always burning - it’s a place that welcomes all and there’s usually someone sitting at the heavy wooden table in the kitchen with her, drinking tea and eating some of her delicious spiced cookies and talking about anything and everything.

She had become something of a person to talk to, a problem solver, an ear to listen and a shoulder to cry on - old habits really did die hard and her reputation had followed her.

Sometimes this weighed heavy on her shoulders and he’d find her perched on their roof as she often did back in Kirkwall; just watching the sun set (or rise, depending on how badly she had slept that night), lost in thought or lost in memories and he’d have to bring her back with a hand on her arm, a cup of tea and a gentle kiss to the top of her head.

The gesture always made her smile, even if that smile didn’t always quite reach her eyes.

He often told himself that if he could make her smile at least once a day, he’d done his job well.

So, he wasn’t overly concerned when one morning he awoke early to a bitter chill cutting the air that was heavy with the scent of oncoming snow and she wasn’t beside him. Knowing his Muse, she was in the garden just waiting for that first snowflake to fall; so wrapping himself up, he wandered down to find her exactly where he knew she’d be: sitting on the bench he’d built for them hidden away behind various shrubs and trees by the small pond.

Frost had gathered overnight, a pale brilliance shimmering along the ground as he joined her; something he’d always come to associate with her - beautiful, glittering and sparkling and yet somehow carrying the threat of danger; as if one wrong move with her and you’d slip and fall, tumbling to your death.

She had always told him that she thought the way that moonlight made the frost look was magical; something brittle and easily broken like crystal but that she loved the impermanence of it, how the short lifespan of it gave way to spring so easily and although autumn was her favourite season she felt something of an affinity with the frosts of winter.

She turned azure eyes towards him, took his hands in hers and kissed him, soft and slow as the first snow of the season began to fall around them, hiding the frost under it’s soft white powder and coating the world in magic once more.


	14. Home Sweet Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the 2018 Advent Ficlet Challenge  
> December 14th: A Beautiful Sight
> 
> * * *
> 
> Inspired by this photograph found on Tumblr.
> 
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> 
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Their house was small, but cosy; homely and always warm and welcoming.

She had made garlands out of holly, ivy, berries and pinecones to string around the windows and fireplace and the small tree he had cut down and dragged in for her was decorated with beautiful glass baubles and wooden ornaments. Candles were strewn everywhere, their flames flickering and casting their gentle orange glow over each surface.

_Home sweet home,_ Varric thought with a sigh as he hung his satchel on the hook by the door, sniffing the air and finding it sweet, spicy and comforting.

He smiled, as he watched Hawke placing cookies into a small basket with other foodstuffs and some bottles and handed them to the little girl next to her; telling her to wish her mother well and to make sure she got enough rest. The little girl grinned, gap-toothed and adorable and left the house with a skip.

From Champion of Kirkwall to, well, champion baker (Varric groaned internally at that terrible not-even-joke), her confections were the most popular in the small village they had settled in and people came to her for her sage advice, delicious food and occasionally for her skillfully made healing tonics and potions.

They had settled well into this lifestyle, no dangers, nothing to fear or run from - Hawke was operating a successful baking business and he was something of a famous author; often found holding court in the local tavern, surrounded by an avid audience while Hawke looked on fondly, a soft smile on her lips.

_This_ , Varric thought, _is exactly what happiness is. We’re safe, we’re together and life is good. And_ , he mused, watching Hawke busying herself with new potions, _I could get used to this._

_It really is a beautiful sight._


	15. The Wooden Army of Lothering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the 2018 Advent Ficlet Challenge  
> December 15th: Toy Soldier
> 
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> 
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“What’s in here, Hawke?” Varric gestured to a small wooden chest on her bed that he’d not seen before.

“Memories,” she replied almost sadly.

“May I?” Varric asked, waving a hand in a  _ can I open it _ sort of way.

Hawke nodded with a  _ mhm _ noise as she rummaged around in her armoire for a pair of warm socks.

“What’s this all about?” Varric held up a wooden soldier figurine, “harbouring a secret desire to start swinging a sword?”

Hawke turned, her expression becoming wistful as she took the figurine and turned it over in her hands.

“Father made it for Carver’s nameday one year. His friends had them, all handmade by a travelling toy salesman. They were far too expensive for us to buy one and Carver was teased mercilessly by the other boys. So Father made him that one. He was so happy with it. He’d go and play in the fields with the other boys, all of them lining up their toy soldiers; like a little wooden army. 

“They all ended up with a nickname, the group of them: The Wooden Army of Lothering. Everyone saluted them when they went by all together.

“One of the only times I remember seeing him openly happy and smiling; he was always so serious. It’s all I have of Carver now, that and the feeling of intense disapproval whenever I help a fellow mage, of course.” Hawke laughed lightly.

She placed the figurine back into the chest, making sure to wrap it carefully in a piece of dark red fabric.

“It was Bethany’s scarf. I always keep them close so I know they’re together, at least somewhere.”

“Ah, I’m sure they’re up there with your Father and… Leandra,” Varric trailed off, worried that he’d caused hurt, but she was smiling faintly and he continued, “they’re all going to be watching over you and Hawke?”

“Mmm…?”

“They’ll be so proud of you, beautiful,” he took her hands and squeezed gently, “so,  _ so  _ proud.”

“Thank you, Varric,” Hawke sighed softly and closed the chest with a click, picking up a bottle of whiskey from the floor. “A toast, to those we’ve lost.” She took a swig and passed it to Varric.

“May they always be with us,” he added, “and may we find them when we go to the Maker.”


	16. Seasons Greetings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the 2018 Advent Ficlet Challenge  
> December 16th: Seasons Greetings  
> ____________  
> Come and say "hi" to me here:  
> [Tumblr](www.somnaborium.tumblr.com) // WordPress // [Instagram](www.instagram.com/somnaborium) // [Twitter](www.twitter.com/somnaborium)

_ Muse, _

_ It's getting colder here. There's snow  _ everywhere _ , you'd be in your element. _

_ Ruffles is making sure the entire place is decorated to the rafters for Satinalia. She's ordered these huge trees from Maker knows where, there's candles all over the place and they're always lit, somehow. I swear, she gets up at the ass crack of dawn to make sure they're all burning! _

_ This time of year always makes me think of you more than any other. I'm watching the snowfall and remembering that time you dragged me out to build a snowman and that hot mulled cider you made after.  _

_ Ah, I shouldn't say it, but I miss you. _

_ I hope you're not away from me for too long. _

_ With all my love, _

_ Varric. _

Hawke smiled, folding the parchment nearly and slipping it into her pocket.

Skyhold wasn't too far away, another three weeks of travelling and she would be back with Varric again. 

_ This time,  _ she thought determinedly,  _ it's for good. We're finally getting our happy ending. _

The raven that had delivered the parchment cawed impatiently and Hawke sighed, putting down a bowl of seeds for it to peck at while she replied.

_ Varric, _

_ I hope this letter reaches you swiftly and finds you well. _

_ I'm waiting for a carriage to take me from Weisshaupt, they're saying it should take three weeks, or thereabouts if the travel is good. _

_ I may not make it back to you in time for the festivities at Skyhold, but just know I am thinking of you and I miss you so very much. _

_ So, in case I am not there to say this in person: Happy Satinalia, love. I'll be with you soon. _

_ Always yours, _

_ Thalia. _

She pressed a drop of her perfume oil to the parchment, tied it to the raven and sent it, a flurry of feathers and noise, flying away.

The horse master waved her over, indicating her carriage was ready and with a smile and a happy with, Hawke alighted and settled in for the long journey to Skyhold and, more importantly, the safety of her loves arms.


	17. Cold Hands, Warm Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the 2018 Advent Ficlet Challenge  
> December 17th: Warm and Cozy
> 
> * * *
> 
> Come and say "hi" to me here:  
> [Tumblr](www.somnaborium.tumblr.com) // WordPress // [Instagram](www.instagram.com/somnaborium) // [Twitter](www.twitter.com/somnaborium)

“Is it  _ still  _ snowing?”

“Mhm.”

A rustle of blankets accompanied the soft voices; all the more hushed for the snowfall outside the windows.

“It’s so cold,” Varric muttered, pressing up against Hawke.

“You’re such a baby,” Hawke chuckled, pulling up a thick fur from the floor and adding it to their bundle of blankets; shrieking when Varric placed his ice-cold fingertips on the exposed skin of her back where her tunic had moved up. “You  _ ass _ !”

He laughed, warm and husky; autumn sunlight and rich whiskey and pressed a kiss by way of apology to the back of her neck, enjoying the shiver that followed it that had nothing to do with the temperature.

Hawke pouted, settling back onto the seat and bringing the blankets and furs around them both.

“Better?” 

“Hmm,” Varric pulled her closer to him, moving her so she was curled against him; head on his shoulder and his arm wrapped tight around her, “better  _ now _ .”

“Smooth talker,” she murmured, a smile quirking her full lips.

“Would you have me any other way, Muse?”

“I suppose not, no. Your hands really are like ice, you know.” She moved, taking both his hands in hers and rubbing gently.

“Cold hands -” he began to say.

“Warm heart,” Hawke finished with a grin, “you old softie.”

“Hmph, less of the old, thank you.”

They laughed together, the kind of easy laughter that came with years of friendship and strong bonds forged in the harshest of situations - that they were exploring the boundaries of their relationship only strengthened it further.

And while they laughed, warm, cozy and comfortable; wrapped up under piles of blankets and furs, the snow fell faster outside, covering Hightown with it’s strange and quiet magic.


	18. A Satinalia Surprise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the 2018 Advent Ficlet Challenge  
> December 18th: Celebration
> 
> * * *
> 
> Come and say "hi" to me here:  
> [Tumblr](www.somnaborium.tumblr.com) // Pillowfort // WordPress // [Instagram](www.instagram.com/somnaborium) // [Twitter](www.twitter.com/somnaborium)

Hawke stepped into the Hanged Man, shoulders slumped and head pounding.

She had been dealing with Meredith's ridiculous errands for days, the mantle of Champion a heavy burden and one she largely carried alone.

All she wanted tonight was a drink and some time with Varric to take her mind off of the politics, the fighting and the problems that people just seemed to pile upon her every day.

The atmosphere is the Hanged Man seemed somehow odd, too quiet and as thought everyone was on the verge of exhaling but were waiting for something to happen before they could.

_I've never felt so uneasy here,_ Hawke thought as she walked up the stairs to Varric's suite, feeling eyes upon her back, adding to the unease.

The heavy wooden door to the suite was closed, which in and of itself wasn't odd, he would close it if he was working or sleeping, but the note that read “Hawke, please knock before entering” was _definitely_ strange.

Frowning, she rapped lightly on the door.

“Hawke? That you?” Came the response from the other side.

“It’s me, Varric, can I come in?”

“Uhh, actually I’m a bit busy. Come back later.”

“Oh.” Hawke felt her shoulders slump even further, “alright, just come and find me when you’re ready.”

Silence answered her and she tried to shrug off the dejected feeling that wrapped around her, but it settled on her like a cloak.

She perched at the bar, a cup of whiskey appearing by her hands and waited.

_I won’t wait all night,_ she thought stubbornly.

Not long into her second cup of whiskey; the alcohol burning through the unease, the sting of what felt too much like rejection and the stresses of the day, Hawke felt a tap on her lower back and turned to see Varric smiling at her.

“All done!” He held his hand out to her, “my suite is your suite, beautiful.”

“Are you sure?” She asked, a little too caustically, “I can come back tomorrow if you’re busy.”

“Ah,” Varric shifted uncomfortably, not quite meeting her gaze, “no, everything’s sorted and finished and you’re definitely welcome to come up. If you want to, of course.”

Hawke shrugged, off-balance by his squirrely behaviour, one shoulder rising and falling as she slipped off of the stool and followed him to his rooms.

“Why is it so dark in here, Varric?”

“Well, I work better in the dark.”

“I somehow don’t believe you. What’s going on? Everything feels so odd here tonight.”

“I don’t know what you mean, Hawke. Everything feels just fine to me. The darkness, well it’s a writer thing, don’t worry about it.”

“That’s the biggest amount of horse-”

“SURPRISE!!!”

Hawke jumped a mile as her friends burst out from the bedroom area, tiny flickers of fire dancing along candles and lighting the room; which was fully decorated for a Satinalia party.

Food was piled on the table; a small tree in the corner and bunting everywhere ( _Merrill definitely had a hand in that,_ Hawke thought with a smile) but more than that, everyone she loved and cared for was here, all smiling and laughing at the shock on her face.

“What…” She began, but Varric pressed a drink into her hands and propelled her to the table, everyone following.

“Well, we thought-”

“Oh no,” Isabela cut in with a wicked grin, “this was all his idea, we just helped.”

“Thank you for that, Rivaini.” Varric sighed, “fine, _I_ thought that you had been under so much stress lately from our dear Knight Commander and her ever increasing demands on your time; not to mention everything else you do for Kirkwall, that you deserved something just for you. So we all threw you a surprise party. Just because.”

Hawke leaned down and kissed Varric on the cheek, hugging him, before getting up and hugging each of her friends.

“Thank you. This is wonderful.” She beamed a smile at them all, sitting down and raising her glass. “To all of you. My dearest friends.”

“To _you_ Hawke,” Varric replied, the others following suit. “Now, enough of this soppy shit. Let’s eat, drink and be very very merry.”

And so they did, putting aside worries and responsibilities for the night to just enjoy the present moment; simply enjoying the time spent together, just talking and laughing into the small hours.

For one night, Hawke felt light and unburdened, like any normal citizen of Kirkwall and that, Varric thought later on when everyone had left, was all he ever wanted.


	19. Conversations with Ghosts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the 2018 Advent Ficlet Challenge  
> December 19th: Silent Night
> 
> * * *
> 
> Come and say "hi" to me here:  
> [Tumblr](www.somnaborium.tumblr.com) // Pillowfort // WordPress // [Instagram](www.instagram.com/somnaborium) // [Twitter](www.twitter.com/somnaborium)

In the hours between the inky black of night and the reddish glow of dawn, she wanders the estate; the rooms feeling too big, too empty; cold and lonely.

Usually, she treads the same path - from her room to the library downstairs, fingers trailing idly over the spines of heavy books and scrolls of parchment, the figure above the fireplace following her with it’s dark beetle-black eyes as she pads through the room and back out again.

From there, she ventures to the kitchen, a room full of laughter and life by day but by night a different place entirely. Moonlight slices harshly through the large window, dust motes dancing along the table and somewhere in the air is the scent of old baking; the breads and cakes and hearty roasts that were created and enjoyed here now banished to memory and thought where they can be shelved like a prized possession.

She doesn’t linger long in this room tonight, her feet walking a different route now, one unrehearsed and unbidden, until she stops outside a door long since closed.

The room beyond is shuttered off; a shrine, a dusty place full of hollow memories and quiet ghosts that sit behind the door, their whispering voices like the rustle of dead leaves in autumn.

She falters, her fingertips on the solid wood; eyes half closed as if only half awake, tilting on that place between dreaming and waking.

The door creaks open, just a crack. 

She would normally close it again, convincing herself that it’s a breeze from an open window, a trick of her imagination, that she just needs to curl up in bed and sleep and look at the door in the morning when the haze of exhaustion and the oily, inky shadows following her from room to room are burned away by the light of a new day.

Tonight, however, she steels herself.

She takes a breath, inhaling the musty scent of the untouched room beyond the just cracked open door and pushes it gently; the hinges creaking far too loudly in the far too silent night.

Usually she is afraid of what lies past the door, the memories that would flood in bright and painful and the chatter of the spectres that live within.

Tonight, however, she faces it.

Tonight, she steps beyond the door and closes it with a soft click behind her and walks forward, letting the dust and the still, stale air settle around her as she faces the ghostly apparitions she grants tenancy to and greets them, smiling and wholly unafraid.


	20. Home Is Where the Heart Is

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the 2018 Advent Ficlet Challenge  
> December 20th: Home
> 
> * * *
> 
> Come and say "hi" to me here:  
> [Tumblr](www.somnaborium.tumblr.com) // Pillowfort // WordPress // [Instagram](www.instagram.com/somnaborium) // [Twitter](www.twitter.com/somnaborium)

Home, Varric thought, was a concept really.

Not just the place you rested or went back to after a long day at work and definitely  _ not  _ just a pile of bricks fashioned into a vaguely home-shaped mass that you search for on the horizon while the ship you’re on steers ever closer to land.

No, home is a  _ feeling _ . Something intangible yet solid and real; something you yearn for and something that gives you hope.

_ You’re getting sentimental in your old age,  _ he scolded himself and somewhere in his mind, Thalia Hawke giggled and pressed a hand to her mouth while mirth danced in her sapphire eyes.

The image of her faded, leaving him smiling yet feeling oddly hollowed out with loneliness. He missed her, despite knowing that he was returning to her now, that his journey was close to being over; he missed her still.

So, home, he pondered. 

Not just something you build or create, nor something that you fill with furniture and belongings either and not always the place you were born or raised.

No, indeed, family didn’t always make a home, he knew that more than anyone. But  _ found  _ family _ ,  _ now that,  _ that  _ could make a place a home without a shadow of a doubt and the family he had found in Hawke and her merry band of misfits had felt like home to him for years.

Now they were all apart, scattered to the winds like flotsam tossed about on the sea. He knew eventually they’d all come together again for something, but it was hard to replace that feeling; that thick clog of emotion in his throat when he thought of them all laughing in his suite at the Hanged Man over Wicked Grace.

But, he mused as he walked up the pathway to a small cottage, there is something to be said for an actual place that you can call home - somewhere where there are candles lit in the windows, an evergreen wreath on the front door and beyond that door, the feeling of hope and happiness and  _ family _ all wrapped up in the familiar scent of baking bread and comforting stews on the table. 

Beyond that door, he knew was the woman he had befriended so many years ago, the woman that was now his life, his love and, perhaps more importantly, his home.


	21. The Fragility of Hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the 2018 Advent Ficlet Challenge  
> December 21st: Hopes and Fears
> 
> * * *
> 
> Come and say "hi" to me here:  
> [Tumblr](www.somnaborium.tumblr.com) // Pillowfort // WordPress // [Instagram](www.instagram.com/somnaborium) // [Twitter](www.twitter.com/somnaborium)
> 
> * * *
> 
> Posting this a day early as I won't be around to post it tomorrow, most likely, as I will be braving the Christmas crowds and doing some shopping.... Maker help me! If nobody hears from me after tomorrow, I've been eaten alive by rabid shoppers.

“What do you hope for, Hawke?”

The question was answered with silence, followed by a soft sigh.

Hope was a tricky thing.

Too much of it and you can become naïve, a rose-tinted view on the world clouding your vision and casting an overly romantic glow on things. Too little, though and you're mired in cynicism, a pessimist who only sees the worst; stuck in a negative world view that seems bleaker by the day.

Hawke had learned over the years to strike the delicate balance between the two - especially when all hope had seemed lost after the death of her mother.

On the outside she had the façade of being snarky, always having a quip at hand for every situation, but those that knew her well knew that this hid real fears; the quiet insidious things that crept into her mind casting doubt and worry over everything she did.

She had taught herself to hope for the best outcome but to also expect the worst to happen, because usually that's exactly what  _ did  _ happen; even if most things worked out in the end, there was always some degree of utterly terrible woven throughout each outcome.

Fears, now  _ they  _ were easier and Hawke had many, not that she openly admitted to them, but  _ oh _ they were there alright, those sneaky voices that chattered in the back of her mind, the sound like dry leaves or old bones rattling together.

Fears were much less difficult to cultivate and keep alive than hope, especially in Kirkwall where hope was a fragile thing that seemed to be kept on a leash to be let free only at the last,  _ last _ minute. 

Fear though, that was something that ran through the entire city like an undercurrent of lightning. It was something alive, something with its own pulse and heartbeat, its own wants and desires.

Hawke wondered what would happen if she let hope take over, if she let what she truly hoped for become its own being; something she set free and cast out to the ether like a fervent wish.

Would it somehow happen, or would it be squashed by the ever-present dark shadow of the fears that bubbled all too close to the surface?

She sighed again.

Thinking about it wasn't helping her sift through the tangles of her own mind, her thoughts catching on each other as if they were snagging on thorns.

“Hawke?” Varric's gentle voice lifted her out of herself and back to the moment.

“I just want to be happy,” she answered quietly and went to him, curling into his embrace and allowing the touch of his hand on hair to calm the whirling thoughts in her mind. “I think that's all anyone can hope for these days. Just to be able to carve out some happiness in this mess of a city.”

Perhaps saying it would make it happen one day, perhaps it wouldn't.

Perhaps the fear that thrived in Kirkwall would eventually quash any small piece of happiness or perhaps hope would rise up like the proverbial phoenix.

But right now, Hawke thought that she would be fine settling for the peace and comfort she found with Varric's arms around her; his fingers in her hair and the rhythm of his heart beat, steady and unerring, unfurling something warm inside her chest like the bloom of a flower.

Something fragile, like spun sugar or the most exquisitely delicate glass.

  
_ Hope. _


	22. A Feast for Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the 2018 Advent Ficlet Challenge  
> December 22nd: Feast  
> ____________  
> Come and say "hi" to me here:  
> [Tumblr](www.somnaborium.tumblr.com) // Pillowfort // WordPress // [Instagram](www.instagram.com/somnaborium) // [Twitter](www.twitter.com/somnaborium)

****

The table is set - fresh cream linens, pressed crisp and neat, all folded edges and sharp lines; silverware polished and gleaming in the light of the candles dotted everywhere.

Food from the kitchen, smelling wonderfully of rich spices and earthy herbs; thick gravies and sticky fruit sauces in little dishes, vegetables and roasted meats.

Music drifting in, soft lutes just enough to be heard; gently buoyant and uplifting.

Gifts, wrapped in bright paper and ribbons piled up under a beautifully decorated tree next to a fire roaring in the hearth; holly and evergreen garlands strung around the mantle.

Everything in order, everything in its place; waiting for the arrival of friends who bring chattering and laughter that fills each corner, each empty space with its brightness and warmth.

This feast is for them, for her to show them that no matter what happens, they're family and always will be.

Not just a feast to celebrate Satinalia, but a feast to celebrate them all.


	23. Sleep, Sweetie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the 2018 Advent Ficlet Challenge  
> December 23: Nightmare Before Christmas  
> ____________  
> Come and say "hi" to me here:  
> [Tumblr](www.somnaborium.tumblr.com) // Pillowfort // WordPress // [Instagram](www.instagram.com/somnaborium) // [Twitter](www.twitter.com/somnaborium)

_ The sickening sound of bones crunching. _

_ A shriek piercing the air and then silence. _

_ Blood, far too red to be real, spattering the hard ground. _

_ A dull thud, a body hitting sharp rocks and sliding, broken and useless to the dirt. _

_ A sharp cry, an accusation, the finger of guilt and blame. _

_ Lifeless eyes staring blindly at the sky. _

_ The sharp prick of loss, an icy shiver that foretells there will be more. _

_ This is your fault! Your fault! _

_ The sharp rocks and dirt packed ground fade away, melting into darkness as the continued litany of blame grows quieter until all is silent. _

_ Cold, damp air seeps straight into the bone, sinking into the marrow and chilling everything it touches. _

_ Candle-lit torches stabbed into rock, light flickering and casting shifting shadows that take on a life of their own. _

_ A gasp, sharp and rattling. _

_ Skin clammy and pale, mapped out with dark lines that creep and slither. _

_ Sunken eyes, dull but strangely, eerily lit from within. _

_ A whispered plea to end it now before… before…  _

_ The dagger sliding through skin, into ribs and twisting through the intake of breath. _

_ Another life snuffed out too soon. _

_ Another finger pointing, another heavy cloak of guilt. _

_ The shifting shadows creep closer, taking over until all is darkness and silence again. _

_ The smell of rotten earth, mould and the sickly sweet stench of decay. _

_ Death is everywhere here, oppressive and cloying. _

_ Demonic entities rise and fall, ashes and ichor joining dust, dirt and bloodstains. _

_ A locket, glinting amongst the dead things, a symbol of foolish hope. _

_ The giggle of a madman, insane ramblings and the horror of his life's work; all grey skin, stitches and sickening wrongness, shuffling with outstretched arms and a far too familiar face. _

_ No no no not again, not again! _

_ This is your fault! Your fault! _

_ You failed, you failed. _

_ All is lost. _

_ The heavy, coppery scent of blood as a dagger is drawn over delicate skin. _

_ The thrum of powerful magic, blood magic crackling in the air. _

_ Shock. Anger. Hurt. Loss. _

_ What have you done? What have you done? _

_ WHAT HAVE YOU - _

Hawke awakens with a start, breathing erratic and harsh in the quiet night, her heart pounding almost painfully.

Varric stirs beside her, a hand questing for hers instantly, the warmth of his skin a balm to her fractious soul.

Without asking, just knowing, as he always did, he pulled her to him; one hand stroking her hair to calm her and soothe her.

He knows the dreams that trouble her, the demons that stalk her sleep and although he can't take them away, he does what he can to ensure he's a source of comfort when she awakens.

In the bright light of dawn, he knows she will be herself again - making jokes, snarky quips to the point of being irreverent, even - hiding the fears and guilt that dog her while she sleeps.

Only he sees this side, the side that allows her insecurities and fears to be laid bare before another.

And only he can soothe her and bring her back to herself when the nightmares become too much to handle.

Tomorrow, he will take extra care of her, bringing her a hearty breakfast in bed and making sure he can help chase the darkness away.

For now, he pulls her even closer, murmuring soft words, voice gentle and sleep-rough until her breathing becomes even and she settles into a light, dreamless sleep.

  
  
  



	24. Your Touch Makes Me Strong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the 2018 Advent Ficlet Challenge  
> December 24th: Peace  
> ____________  
> Come and say "hi" to me here:  
> [Tumblr](www.somnaborium.tumblr.com) // Pillowfort // WordPress // [Instagram](www.instagram.com/somnaborium) // [Twitter](www.twitter.com/somnaborium)  
> ___________  
> It's a day late, but here's the final chapter!  
> Merry Christmas, Blessed Yule and Happy Satinalia, friends.

Peace was a hard thing to come by in Kirkwall.

There was always something happening, some event or catastrophe, something that tipped the balance of the city from vague madness to total insanity.

Now, things had spiralled completely out of control as the city burned, people fleeing the oncoming storm of war that had been brought to their doorsteps by the actions of one desperate man that thought his brand of justice was the only way to fix things.

The chaos spread out like smoke, cracks on the surface that spiderwebbed outwards and snagged on anything in the way; pulling people towards its centre like a magnetic force.

Decisions had to be made, action taken and consequences given.

And of course, once more, this fell squarely on the shoulders of one Thalia Hawke - another burden to carry, another choice to make, another pathway branching off with unknown destinations; her feet once more unsure and unsteady.

Her fellow Mages needed her help, needed her strength and her presence to help them through the massacre and the terror of the now invoked Rite of Annulment.

She would be a hypocrite if she turned on them now, especially after all she had done over the years to keep them safe from the ever watchful eyes and ever ready swords of the Templars and their brands.

And yet one of their kin had caused this destruction, made the choice that carried with it a senseless amount of loss; what message did it send of she were to face the world and ally herself with them after this had happened? Would people understand or would she be written off as yet another troubled soul fallen prey to some demon?

A hand slipped into hers, warm and solid; squeezing her fingers.

“I'm with you, Muse,” Varric's gentle voice lifted her out of the haze of indecision and she looked down to him, eyes clouded to find him looking back, resolute and strong. “Whatever you do, whatever you choose. I'm with you.”

Peace was a hard thing to come by in Kirkwall, found usually in small doses and at the strangest, most inopportune times; like a single moment suspended in time where the touch of a hand can bring peace and clarity, deliver strength and most of all, the support needed to make a choice and walk a path, certain and sure footed.

  
  



End file.
